the softest bullet ever shot
by vis-et-decus
Summary: a miscellaneous collection of Rachel x Quinn drabbles. themes range from anything to everything, and then some. /update: 5 July - where never lark or even eagle flew/
1. table of contents

what was this, I thought, that struck me?  
>what kind of weapons have they got?<br>the softest bullet ever shot...

the spark that bled / flaming lips

This is the Table of Contents of all the random Rachel/Quinn drabbles my little mind will come up with.

There will be a summary of the story (vague, since I am obnoxious and like it that way), details (for the 99% of you that hate vagueness), and any inspirations I used while working on the piece: discography (music I listened to), filmography (clips from movies or on YouTube), bibliography (books I skimmed/read for research); the latter are applied as necessary. Miscellaneous notes will be tacked on the end.

**1. uneasy lies the head**

_summary:_ Quinn realizes her own American dream: long live the queen.  
><em>details:<em> serialkiller!promqueen!Quinn. she insisted on being the bastard lovechild of Dexter Morgan and Patrick Bateman. see if you can spot the gratuitous I Am Number Four easter egg.  
><em>discography:<em> 'In The Hall of the Mountain King' – Edvard Greig, as covered by Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross. The Social Network soundtrack. 'Opposites Attract' – Clint Mansell. Black Swan soundtrack. 'A New Temptation' – Trevor Morris. The Tudors: Season Three soundtrack.  
><em>filmography:<em> 'Morning Routine.' American Psycho, 2000.  
><em>misc. <em>The title is from Shakespeare's Henry IV: 'Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.'  
><strong><br>2. (the ballad of) Rachel Berry**

_summary:_ they're buryin' Rachel Berry in the mornin'.  
><em>details:<em> a completely bastardized pseudo-ballad about love and loss. what? I told you guys I go all over the place. the only rhyme scheme this pseudo-ballad has are eight syllables during the 'speech' parts. please tell me you can figure out who the two speakers are.  
><em>discography: <em>'A Howling Wilderness/The Death of Jane Seymour' - Trevor Morris. The Tudors - Season Three soundtrack.  
><em>bibliography: <em>Inspired by (and heavily borrowing from) Rudyard Kipling's "Danny Deever."  
><em>misc.<em>Inspired by (and heavily borrowing from) Rudyard Kipling's "Danny Deever." is it wrong that he is one of my favorite authors even though he is racist and imperialist? probably. also, it is my fondest hope that one day thousands of sullen schoolchildren will have to tear this apart and analyze it line by line.

**3. where never lark or even eagle flew**

_summary:_ oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth / and danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings...  
><em>details:<em> repressed!General's Daughter!Quinn and awesome!fighterpilot!Rachel. no, I have no idea where this came from, either. hell, every other AU exists out there, why not write about one I am vaguely familiar with?  
><em>discography:<em> 'Personal Jesus' - Depeche Mode  
><em>bibliography:<em> reference 'High Flight' by John Gillespie Magee Jr.  
><em>misc.<em> dunno why I stopped it where I did. maybe I'll pick it up and make it a longer... thing... in the future. really, this touches Quinn's issues with religion more than anything else and simply uses the military as a vehicle for discussion. (see: song choice. also, I am a horrible person and I am completely okay with that.)


	2. uneasy lies the head

**uneasy lies the head**

They do say that the sharpest blades are sheathed in the softest pouches.  
>Henry Czerny as the Duke of Norfolk  The Tudors

* * *

><p><em>fifty-one days before prom.<em>

The Lima Post

A seventeen year-old girl missing for a week was found dead in a city park today, Lima Police reported.

A spokesman for the police department said that they received a call from a pair of hikers who had gone exploring off one of the main trails and found the body in the brush. He refused to identify the exact location or condition of the body, but suggested that there was evidence of foul play.

Anyone with information about this incident is encouraged to contact the Lima Police Department at—

* * *

><p><em>forty-eight days before prom.<em>

After the initial report comes out, it takes three days for Quinn's heart to stop shaking.

* * *

><p><em>forty-seven days before prom.<em>

It takes another twenty-four hours for her to realize that her heart hadn't been trembling out of fear.

It had been trembling with delight.

* * *

><p><em>forty-five days before prom.<em>

Quinn Fabray has always known she's not quite like other people. It's very simple, really; she places them into two categories: _like-me_ and _not-like-me._

There's no one in Lima, Ohio, that's in the _like-me_ category.

Quinn has always gone through great pains to figure out how to respond appropriately to other people; her laughs are a bit too shallow, her tears just a second off. It takes effort. _Conscious_ effort. And she's _consciously _aware of the fact that, well— she doesn't really know why she's supposed to react the way she's expected to. Was Finn's comment supposed to be funny? (those were easy, humor was such a varied thing that she could play it off with a mere roll of her eyes.) Was that movie scene supposed to break her heart? (she can't tell because she doesn't know what love is. she doesn't know if she's capable of love and probably wouldn't be able to identify it if she were. she tries not to blink and hopes her eyes will water accordingly.) Was it lust she was supposed to feel, with Puck's mouth heavy on her neck, with his hand heavy between her legs? (she moans, the way she's taught herself to do by reading romance novels, by watching teenage 'rom-com' films. it doesn't really matter; she could have sung Ave Maria and he'd be too drunk on alcohol and adolescent lust to notice - or care. she goes through the motions, gives a perfunctory grunt or whine now and again, and considers it the greatest triumph she's had all day when she manages to stay awake through the entire ordeal.)

She doesn't really identify with what other people express, with what they feel, because aside from indifference and some variations of anger, she doesn't know how to... well, _feel._

* * *

><p><em>forty-four days before prom.<em>

It's her own fault she's dead. I was okay until she intruded, and she was so damn... _human._

- an excerpt from the diary of Q. Fabray.

* * *

><p><em>forty days before prom.<em>

A fact: Quinn Fabray has an overwhelming need to be left alone.

She frequents one of Lima's many community parks, often after nightfall, for the sole purpose of being away from humanity. Humanity: the pressing, suffocating tides of people that moved and rose and swelled and crushed, with their gestures and smells and noises and thoughts and words and feelings feelings _feelings_.

These occasional visits to the park after dusk were necessary respites. It was all she could do to stop herself from putting out all those bright little people, those small shining stars, one by one by _feeling _one.

But no, not tonight. Tonight there were intruders in her sanctuary - there was breathless laughter and anxious pleading; a teenage mating ritual being enacted before her eyes. A flash of flesh beneath a streetlamp, an eager hand on a thigh. A litany of love-words and promises, not meant to last beyond the moment. A high-pitched keen as that hand vanishes; heavy, muted panting.

Quinn calmly takes hold of the sick, squirming hatred in her stomach and squeezes until it's manageable.

"Hey, what the—?"

The single, twitching shadow separates into its halves - one male, one female. They shout excuses and accusations at her: voyeur, he made me, pervert, nothing was happening, if you ever tell anyone, that's so gross, not getting enough action on your end so you gotta sneak around and—

Quinn briefly closes her eyes and wills her eardrums to spontaneously combust. There's a dull disappointment when it doesn't happen.

The male has slunk off, leaving a trail of justifications and pointed glances. The female remains. It's a schoolmate - Ashley, Ainsley, something along those lines. Quinn continues to sit and stare, not at, but through.

The girl becomes more vicious now that her counterpart is gone, but it's nothing Quinn hasn't heard before at school. She's a freak, she's disgusting. She can't get any since she popped a kid out because no one wants used merchandise. She's stupid, utterly imbecilic, entirely idiotic for putting herself in the running for prom queen because unless she finds an institution full of lobotomized patients no one is going to waste the effort of putting their pen to the ballot and words, words, and more _words_ and it's so much _noise _that Quinn has to hold her breath until she gets lightheaded to maintain any semblance of normalcy.

But then— "—and you're just mad because your thighs have stretch marks and mine are perfect—"

Quinn's eyes flicker down to the area of interest. The girl's skirt is a little mussed, hitched up along the sides.

God.

God, it's _true._

A second fact: Quinn Fabray has an overwhelming need to be flawless.

* * *

><p><em>thirty-eight days before prom.<em>

She's sitting on the park bench when the officer approaches.

It's the same bench that she stood up from the moment the other girl tossed her hair and turned her back. It's the same spot he's walking toward, four feet in front of her, that the girl was standing when Quinn wrapped her hands around her neck from behind.

It's that same spot where they both collapsed onto the asphalt walking trail, the struggling life beneath Quinn unable to make any noise whatsoever. Her hands may be small, but her grip is surprisingly strong and her fingers are _deadly _accurate.

Ha, ha.

She could feel the wild pulse in the curve between her thumbs and her forefingers; Quinn knows she cut off the flow of blood through the girl's carotid arteries. She could feel the air in the girl's seizing windpipe against the crush of her fingertips; Quinn knows she deprived her of both the ability to get the necessary oxygen in and let the necessary carbon dioxide out.

The body beneath her slumped all too soon, and Quinn only released her hold for a quick second to flip the girl around so that she could see her face before resuming that serpent-like embrace around her neck.

And when the girl finally surrendered her life, Quinn hovered but a kiss away and inhaled, open-mouthed, sucking in the girl's last breath.

Flawless.

"Miss, you're aware there was a murder here a short time ago? Pretty young girl like yourself, too. I wouldn't recommend sitting out here by yourself after dark. Never know who's out here, planning unscrupulous things... it could be anyone, you know."

"It could be anyone," Quinn echoes as she stands; she offers the policeman a wide smile before turning to make her way back home.

* * *

><p><em>thirty-five days before prom.<em>

Berry was staring at me a little longer than usual today. I wonder if it has anything to do with the report of the second girl on the news last night.

What was her name? Eliza, Elise. Something. She had such gorgeous hands. Such slim, beautiful hands.

And now I do, too.

- an excerpt from the diary of Q. Fabray.

* * *

><p><em>thirty-one days before prom.<em>

She needs to slow down. She needs to slow down, collect herself, and think.

The third girl had been so close... so close. But there were only six girls on the ballot, after all, and she's one of them. It wouldn't do to have the third one disappear so soon after the second - even if Sasha, or Sarah, or whatever her name was, had such lovely hair.

She was some kind of vegetarian photographer girl that listened to indie music or whatnot... a type of hipster that Quinn would normally ignore even more than she usually tuned out the rest of humanity, were it not for that breathtakingly stunning hair. It was alluring even in the sickly neon glow of the darkroom, and Quinn was close enough to caress those locks, close enough to feel the tiny hairs on the back of the other girl's neck – undoubtedly stunning as well – prickle in alarm...

And then there's a blinding light and the sound of the door banging open and Quinn experiences what she believes is a mild irritation at being caught.

"Quinn, I need to talk to you."

The other girl startles, hazel eyes wide, completely unaware that there was someone else in the room with her. Quinn nearly vomits up her fury.

"Make it quick, manhands," is what she hears herself snarling, eyes lingering a second too long on those soft golden waves, glistening like ripened wheat... ready for the harvest.

**...**

Quinn almost has her first genuine cry when she realizes, by the sound of nervous feet behind her, that her quarry has escaped the school and the perfect opportunity has slipped by.

And, as usual, it's all Rachel Berry's fault.

No. No. She won't wring the life from Berry's lungs, though her hands itch. This is a good thing. It gives her time. Time to throw everyone off her trail. Time for people to ease off the anxious high that's been permeating the school, time for them to grow complacent again. Time for that sweet blonde girl to laugh off her fears and take up residence in the darkroom once more.

Quinn belatedly realizes that Rachel's been talking at her for five minutes.

"—very concerned, Quinn."

She must have quirked an eyebrow or given the smaller brunette some sort of questioning look, because Rachel nearly flies into one of her diva tantrums. "Quinn! Did a single word of that speech make it—"

"I'll save you the effort. No." She turns to leave, to go home and plot her next move, but there's a little hand wrapping around her forearm and preventing her from walking away. Quinn glances down at it. Not masculine, but nothing compared to the hands she'd taken from her second sacrifice. Nothing compared to Quinn's flawless hands. Unacceptable. She shrugs off the touch.

"I'm worried about you," comes the whimper from behind her, and Quinn grinds her molars against each other a few times before turning around. There's a look she's never seen before in the watery brown gaze that meets her, and it's baffling.

"There's... there's been two murders, Quinn. Two homicides - both female, both teenagers, both from our school. And it's no coincidence that they both happened to be running for prom queen! Quinn, what if...what if..."

Quinn steels herself for the accusation and mentally runs through a list of places she can hide Rachel's body.

"... what if you're next?"

Quinn blinks once, twice. She rapidly reassesses the look that Rachel's giving her now: there's a softness, a vulnerability that's previously been reserved for Finn, or Puck, or Jesse, or whoever Rachel's flavor of the week-

Oh.

Oh, no.

"Don't worry about me, Rachel. I'll—"

"Are you listening to yourself? Do you hear what you're saying? How can you honestly tell me to cease and desist? Quinn, someone is going around murdering potential prom queens and I have read up on several case studies with regards to these types of crimes. I have every right to believe that you are in very real danger, and I am going to—"

Quinn only realizes fifteen seconds after the fact that she's kissed Rachel to shut her up.

Unfortunately, Rachel is kissing her back.

* * *

><p><em>twenty-seven days before prom.<em>

Berry has proved to be an... interesting distraction from the monotony of the day. Her concern for my well-being combined with her naturally inquisitive nature will prove an obstacle when it comes to my third, fourth and fifth sacrifices, but it's nothing that can't be overcome. I'm sure she'll outgrow her usefulness eventually - or I'll tire of that incessant noise - but I'll keep her around for now.

Did I write third, fourth and fifth up there? I meant fourth and fifth. Taking pictures in abandoned graveyards is an interesting hobby. One Sheila... or was it Sarah?... won't be participating in any more.

But that hair. Like a tangible halo around her face when she hit the ground. She glowed. It was beautiful. She was beautiful.

Now I shine, too.

- an excerpt from the diary of Q. Fabray.

* * *

><p><em>twenty days before prom.<em>

"Quinn, I'm scared."

That's how Rachel Berry had ended up a weeping mess in Quinn's arms. They were both sitting on Quinn's bed, with Rachel sniveling into the blonde girl's shoulder and Quinn staring blankly at the wall behind Rachel, finding it strange that her hands were around another girl's waist instead of her neck.

An unexpected turn of events. Quinn's still trying to decide if it's unwelcome.

Between Rachel's sobs and whimpers and snotting all over Quinn's shirt, Quinn can make out fragments of sentences that explain Rachel's hysterical state: "—three girls – police don't have a single lead – incompetent or deliberately obtuse or both – what kind of sick freak (and here Quinn chuckles internally) – Quinn, I'm scared – you next?"

Quinn has learned that saying 'Rachel, I'm not going to die' or any variation of the line thereof only leads to further apoplectic fits, so she merely hums into Rachel's hair.

The brunette pulls back and looks at the blonde. Quinn's also learned that many people try to disguise their emotions by (poorly) feigning indifference - like forming an ill-concealing, thin layer of ice over rushing waters. With Quinn, it's the opposite: she has to convince people that the tiny puddle they see? Yep, that's Quinn Fabray... that's her, the puddle consisting of three-and-a-half drops of water, and certainly not the glacier beneath it.

Quinn uses up all three and a half drops of emotion, forcing care and concern into her eyes. "Baby, what's wrong?"

The corners of Rachel's mouth are turned down; her brow is furrowed. There are still tears in her eyes, but Quinn quickly catches hint of something else forming in that dark gaze: the embryo of suspicion. "Quinn, you've been rather nonchalant about these issues. The whole school is in an uproar, girls are refusing to associate with the three of you left running for prom queen, one's pulled out of the race already (not that it matters, Quinn thinks to herself), I've purchased you a pair of binoculars along with a collapsible Kevlar baton, and I've cemented your windows shut and have explicitly told you to be nowhere but school and your house... but you... it's like this entire thing is beneath your notice. Are you concerned at all?"

"Other things have been on my mind. Other girls." It's not a lie, in a manner of speaking. Rachel mistakes the intensity in Quinn's eyes for affection and flushes accordingly, looking down at her lap.

"While I'm flattered by your attention, Quinn, I really think we should be focusing on you. Perhaps you should consider withdrawing from—"

"Absolutely not, Rachel! I won't let myself be intimidated by this nonsense." Quinn had heard something like that in a movie, once. It seemed like the right thing to say.

"'Nonsense'? Quinn, girls are dead! I refuse to let you make some social and-or political stand! I have watched Gandhi and Braveheart - both at my fathers' insistence - and yes, I have read The Autobiography of Malcom X - highly recommended, by the way - and though I do concede that portions of those works are fictitious I would also argue that being prom queen is a far cry from ending segregation or—"

"I love you."

"—fighting to end a medieval caste system and arguing for equal rights or— e-excuse me?"

"I love you," Quinn breathes, and when Rachel's mouth doesn't close Quinn opens her own mouth and presses it to Rachel's, gently molding her lips to cover up that orifice that continued tormenting her with all that _noise._

"Quinn, this is— this is progressing entirely too fast and while I understand that you are in a vulnerable emotional state right now, regarding the current events in our town, I—"

"Please." Quinn's hands are on the back of Rachel's neck now, and she bites through her cheek, restraining herself from circling her fingers around to the front. Rachel stiffens at the metallic taste of their next kiss, gasping at the blood on her tongue, but Quinn won't let go. Quinn arches her neck invitingly and Rachel tentatively lays claim to the skin there, growing bolder the more Quinn twists beneath her touch. But all too soon the heat that is Rachel's mouth pulls away, and—

"Quinn... Quinn, we really need—"

_"Please."_ Quinn's hands are still on the back of Rachel's neck and she shoves downward, roughly. Her skirt is drawn up around her thighs - her _flawless_ thighs - and those _flawless_ fingers are digging into Rachel's skin, coaxing her south, and her _flawless_ hair is falling around her shoulders, and anything, _anything_, to get Rachel to stop talking.

Rachel finds another use for her mouth and Quinn lets her live through the night.

* * *

><p><em>sixteen days before prom.<em>

The fourth girl had struggled. She'd struggled and that's why Quinn had relished taking her last bitter, defiant breath - the fight had made the victory all the sweeter.

But the fight could also lead to her undoing.

What if, during the confrontation, the girl had gotten a bit of Quinn's flesh beneath her fingernails? (she remembers the sharp edges of acrylic knifing into her back, biting through her sweater.) No, Quinn had been thorough - she'd removed the girl's fingernails, both fake and real. What if they found blood in the girl's mouth? (she remembers the hateful stab of teeth into her shoulder, now a lovely purple bruise that is meticulously doctored with makeup and masked with long-sleeved shirts.) No, Quinn had washed her mouth out with hydrogen peroxide. What if they found her prints on the girl's neck? (she remembers squeezing, squeezing, squeezing - and why did it need to sound like that, so dispassionate? doing this is the most intimacy Quinn has ever felt with other people in her life.) No, Quinn had wiped her down; gently, lovingly - with more affection in that simple action than in the entire time she'd held the infant she'd borne and given away those many months ago.

She hadn't bothered to close the girl's eyes. She wanted to see her reflection in that glassy, accusing, unblinking gaze. She wanted to see the memory of the passion that girl had possessed during her life - the passion that Quinn had selfishly stolen for herself.

Quinn checks her cell phone when she gets home; she has four texts and two missed calls from Rachel.

Rachel penetrates Quinn for the first time that night – the blonde insists on it. When she feels the brunette's fingers within her, Quinn reaches out with that stolen spark and experiences _la petite mort_, and all she can think is _So this is what living is like._

* * *

><p><em>fifteen days before prom.<em>

She was always so fiery - her brightness a supernova compared to the quick sputters of other peoples' souls. And now it's mine.

I'd say I'm sorry, Santana. But I'd be lying.

- an excerpt from the diary of Q. Fabray.

* * *

><p><em>nine days before prom.<em>

It's not fair. It's not _fair._

The fifth and final girl had not only withdrawn her candidacy but was under some sort of house arrest or in a potential murder victim protection program or some other nonsense that makes Quinn want to scratch out her nerves in frustration. She'd been so close, so _close._ There were five; she only has four. It won't be perfect. _She_ won't be perfect. The crown is hers, but it means as little to her as her relationship with Finn, or Puck, or Sam—

"Quinn, you're trembling."

The blonde shuts her eyes and absently wonders if it's possible to be so enveloped with fury that every single cell in her body explodes at the exact same time. After a handful of seconds, she realizes - with a trace amount of what seems like regret - that she's still quite alive.

"It's just..." Quinn's lips shake involuntarily; where Rachel mistakes it for fear, Quinn knows it's the result of a bitterness that paints the world in violent crimson hues every time she blinks. "It's prom."

"I know. I know you're scared, you're the only one left." A pressure against Quinn's back where Rachel has tucked herself; it takes every milligram of the blonde's self-control to not whirl around and sink her teeth into Rachel's tongue and _rip_. "It'll be okay, Quinn. I won't let anything - _anyone _- hurt you."

Quinn gives a little jerk of her head and tries to pull away, away from that stifling closeness, away from the cage of Rachel's arms. But as she glances back Rachel's eyes are guarded, a slight crease forming on her forehead.

"You... _are_ scared. Aren't you?"

Quinn pulls her lips back in a smile so wide that her gums ache with the effort.

"To death."

* * *

><p><em>three days before prom.<em>

I can't get to her. I don't know where she is. I think they've taken her out of the city.

I'll do it. I'll find a way. I have to be perfect.

They found Santana yesterday. It's taken them long enough. Everyone knew when she didn't show up for school, of course. It was just a matter of them searching by the pond, near where the ducks make their nests every year.

Brittany just sits there and stares. There's a dim light over the top of her eyes, and behind it, a great nothingness.

It's the closest thing to a sister I've ever had.

- an excerpt from the diary of Q. Fabray.

* * *

><p><em>prom night.<em>

"You look gorgeous, Quinn."

There's dread in the shuddering voice behind her and Quinn tunes it out like she's tuned out the awful roar of humanity for the past seventeen years of her life. She takes a moment to eye her reflection, starting from the roots of her hair down to the soles of her feet.

Unfinished.

Flawed.

"Pathetic," she grits out from between clenched teeth, and from her back there's a sharp sob that Rachel desperately tries to muffle. She hadn't directed the word at the brunette but Rachel is always sensitive to insults - especially ones that fall from Quinn's lips - and Quinn finds herself turning, reflexively crooning reassurances and consolations. It's second nature by now to act so... so _normal._

"Don't go," Rachel begs, grasping onto Quinn's hands, her shoulders, her face. It feels like the desperate hold of a drowning woman and Quinn trembles at the thought of being dragged down into the vortex of humankind that Rachel belongs to. "There's less than four hours until prom, and you're the only one. Do you honestly believe that nothing is going to happen between now and then? You are walking into—"

"So I should stay home, lie down and wait to die? I'd much rather be proactive about this sort of thing."

"Quinn Fabray!" The name is accompanied by a stomp of the brunette's foot, something Quinn is sure she would watch with amusement were she capable of finding such a thing entertaining. One of Rachel Berry's patented rants is being delivered in her direction, and Quinn is a captive audience - but she doesn't hear a thing the miniature diva is ranting about.

She wants to laugh. She wants to fall over, dress and heels and two-hundred-dollar hairstyle and all, and laugh until she chokes with the force of it. It was right in front of her this entire time; how could she have missed it?

Rachel's eyes.

They're so bright. So beautifully bright.

Completion.

"Quinn, what are you—"

"Has anyone ever told you what _perfect_ eyes you have?"


	3. the ballad of Rachel Berry

"What is the Glee club singin' for?" said Ducks-on-Parade.  
>"To send her off, to send her off," the Closet-Cheerio said.<br>"What makes you lose your voice, your voice?" said Ducks-on-Parade.  
>"I'm dreadin' what we've got to see," the Closet-Cheerio said.<br>For they're buryin' Rachel Berry, you can hear the students cry  
>She's laid up in the synagogue - not a soul can fathom why<br>'Twas the little brown-haired diva that had to up and die  
>An' they're buryin' Rachel Berry in the mornin'.<p>

"What makes Puckerman breathe so 'ard?" said Ducks-on-Parade.  
>"His tie's too tight, his tie's too tight," the Closet-Cheerio said.<br>"What makes Finn Hudson fall like that?" said Ducks-on-Parade.  
>"He lacks a spine, he lacks a spine," the Closet-Cheerio said.<br>Never we knew that illness 'ad grabbed Rachel for a while,  
>She never spoke a sour word, she was a-singin' and a-smilin'<br>An' all the while that blonde girl there suffered in denial  
>O they're buryin' Rachel Berry in the mornin'.<p>

"There's someone there by Rachel's side," said Ducks-on-Parade.  
>"She's sleepin' cold an' 'lone to-night," the Closet-Cheerio said.<br>"Between th' two they both look dead," said Ducks-on-Parade.  
>"One still lives, for all tha' it's worth," the Closet-Cheerio said.<br>That's no bright angel standin' close to fly Rachel away  
>No, that one with tears a-flowin' - that's our own Quinn Fabray<br>Her love too slowly recognized, and far too late proclaimed!  
>While they're buryin' Rachel Berry in the mornin'.<p>

"What's that that grabs and twists my heart?" said Ducks-on-Parade.  
>"It's Quinn learnin' what true loss is," the Closet-Cheerio said.<br>"What's that that whimpers o'erhead?" said Ducks-on-Parade.  
>"It's Rachel's soul denied a kiss," the Closet-Cheerio said.<br>The world's quit of Rachel Berry, you can hear the Glee club bawl  
>You an' me need to go outside, and have ourselves a talk<br>So we don't end up like Quinn who's got no light in 'er at all  
>After buryin' Rachel Berry in the mornin'.<p> 


	4. where never lark or even eagle flew

**where never lark or even eagle flew**

She has always known.

**...**

She has always known, of course, and that was the simple truth of the matter. It did not come to her as a revelation with wings of glory — it was a hiss in the dark, if anything at all. She has known since she was all of three years old and could recite the Lord's Prayer without faltering, and the knowledge of it had always pressed heavy on her heart, but never moreso than when she began and ended her days with _Our Father who art in Heaven—_

However, knowing it was one thing. Acknowledging it was another.

**...**

She plays the dutiful housewife now, and is successful at it, as if there were any other alternative. She is fiancée to a young pilot with broad shoulders and an affable smile; when he comes home and struggles with his briefs she offers suggestions and queries — but never questions his competence or intelligence, because he is man of the house — and he writes her words in over his own with a slight twist of his lips, never once offering thanks.

At night, she stares out past the double-glass doors that lead out to a terrace that spans the width of the house; on a good day, it can accommodate at least fifty individuals should she decide to host yet another legendary Fabray Garden Party. Past the closets full of designer-brand clothing that have been specifically tailored for her in styles that haven't even hit the runway yet. Past the diploma that hangs surreptitiously out of sight, the one that recognizes L. Quinn Fabray as graduating UPenn's Wharton School of Business (_what a waste of time and money when you should have been learning to keep house,_ she hears her father's growl in the back of her brain whenever she lays eyes on it; she didn't bother letting him know she'd graduated at the top of her class after his... congratulations). Past her own shining reflection — twenty-four years young with hair just a kiss brighter than her sunset-golden eyes; skin and a face so flawless she should be made a permanent display in the Louvre — engaged to a fighter pilot which means they rank at the top of the Air Force hierarchy — pride and joy of General and Mrs Russell Fabray.

She is Quinn Fabray and everything in and about her life is perfect.

Except for the part where she feels like she's watching it being lived for her, which is every second of every day.

**...**

"A girl reported in today."

The fact that Finn is speaking to her about something other than sports — that he is speaking to her at all, really — is almost as much of a surprise as his actual announcement is. The note of barely-concealed dismissal wrapped up in the label of 'girl' is not.

There is one other female that flies in his squadron, a Latina woman of some notoriety. Quinn avoids her eyes whenever they happen to cross paths on base; it is averaging out to be once a month, which is once a month too many for Quinn. The female flier's tactless mouth and brusque manner were no secret, and to top it off there were rumors that she was a homosexual.

Homosexual.

The word ricochets around her brain like an echo unwilling to be released; Quinn shuts her eyes and feels some unfamiliar, awful truth rising within her—

**—** and it is no more than fragments of memories buried somewhere deep, and she dares not let her thoughts linger on it for too long lest the beast stir and raise its head, manifesting itself in the form of a migraine so sharp and sudden it feels like Christ's crown of thorns being pulled from the depths of her soul.

She opens her eyes and smiles at her fiancée. "Oh?"

In response, Finn shows her the front of the base paper he brought home.

There is a girl — no, a _woman_ — standing there, looking both entirely too tiny and yet completely comfortable next to the sharp angles of the jet they have her posed by. Her hair is tied back in a neat bun and the nametape on her flight suit reveals the following: _Rachel 'Diva' Berry_

She is short and sleight, with nondescript brown hair and a nose that looks like it would be more in-place on a Picasso than her face. Her smile is wide and the curves of her lips are— _generous_— but it is her eyes that have Quinn's fingertips trembling atop the pages.

Eyes that pressed against those secret secluded places of Quinn's like a lover tucked against her in the dark.

Eyes that made her feel like Hell was only a half-step behind, breath heavy on her neck.

"She shouldn't be doing a man's job," Quinn hears herself saying, and her voice cuts like the edges of her mother's broken cordials (her childhood is the sound of prayers, and shattering glass, and binding her tears up inside of her so tightly that even she forgets they exist. "Tell the truth and shame the devil, Quinnie," her old priest would say, but this isn't truth, it's _damnation_— ).

"She's spirited," is Finn's response, and there's a hint of something there that makes Quinn taste a sour burning in the back of her throat. His eyes are already on the television and the number of words they exchange for the rest of the night can be counted on a closed fist.

**...**

That night Quinn dreams of the dark-haired girl: she is staring out at a multi-million dollar jet but then those sin-dark eyes bore into her own. Quinn tries to say her prayers but ends up gasping for air like an infant struggling for its first breaths, and when the other woman speaks Quinn cannot tell whether the words are addressed to the aircraft or to herself:

_(ruin has come from less.)_


End file.
